Vargas sank into a chair. “I don’t know. My mother’s was hard to beat.”
“Was? She’s no longer with us?”
Vargas shook his head. “Cancer.”
Rojas crossed himself and raised a glass of water in a toast. “May Jesus smile upon her.” He took a sip and set the glass down. “Let me revise my promise. What you’re about to experience is the second — best chorizo you’ll ever eat.”
Vargas wasn’t quite sure why it mattered-but then it dawned on him. “This is your restaurant?”
“It is,” Rojas said. “Been in the family for over sixty years. People come from miles away to eat here.”
“An institution,” Garcia said.
Rojas shot him a look, as if he were an annoying fly, then smiled at Vargas. “We’ll eat first. Then talk.”
So they ate, Rojas telling them stories of his childhood, working like a dog in the kitchen and wanting nothing more than to escape its hell. Then, once he joined the military, he found that he missed the place, and years later, when his older brother decided against taking the reins from their father, Rojas had agreed to run the business.
His version of running it, however, seemed to be to bark the occasional order to one of the staff as he chowed down on his second plate of sausage.
Vargas paid little attention to it all, merely nodding politely as he ate the chorizo, which, it turned out, was not the second best he had ever tasted.
It was better than his mother’s, God rest her soul, and as he shoveled it down he realized he’d been more than famished. Despite stopping for food along the way, he felt as if he hadn’t had a bite to eat in days.
When they were finally done, Rojas said, “What happened to your hand?”
Vargas glanced at the bandage covering the puncture wound, which was starting to look a little haggard.
“Long story.”
“But that’s why you’re here, yes? To tell it? Garcia says you have information about the Casa de la Muerte murders.”
Vargas nodded. He had been wondering all through breakfast how to broach the subject, and had decided that the direct approach was best.
“I’m offering an exchange.”
Rojas hesitated. This obviously wasn’t what he had expected to hear. “What sort of exchange?”
“I’ll tell you what I know,” Vargas said. “And you tell me the truth about what happened in that house.”
“Truth? I gave you unfettered access to my case files. Names, dates, all of it. What more could you want?”
Vargas reached into his back pocket and brought out the passport photo, laying it on the table in front of Rojas.
“You forgot to tell me about her,” he said.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Garcia involuntarily suck in a breath. Vargas glanced at him, but Garcia had quickly recovered, his expression blank and oddly incurious as he looked at the photo.
Rojas, however, didn’t flinch.
“What’s to tell? I’ve never seen her before. Is she a friend of yours?”
“Come on, Rojas; I know she was in that house. And she was still alive when the Ainsworths found her.”
“Ahhh,” Rojas said. “The Ainsworths. You take the word of a couple of gabachos over mine?” He looked at his associate. “Garcia, I believe I’ve just been insulted. In my own place of business, no less.”
Garcia nodded but said nothing.
“You were at the crime scene,” Rojas continued. “Tell Mr. Vargas what we found that night.”
It may have been Vargas’s imagination, but Garcia seemed a bit stiff, as if he was about to lie and wasn’t quite comfortable doing it.
“Five bodies,” he said. “All of them nuns from the Iglesia del Sagrado Corazon in Ciudad de Almas.”
The words were spoken with about as much passion as that of a campaign worker who didn’t really believe in his candidate.
“You see?” Rojas said to Vargas. “Your American friends are mistaken.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “There’s no doubting that the case is unusual, considering who the victims were, but as I told you before, our investigation has established that they were simply trying to get across the border and fell prey to bandits.”
“So then the name Angie means nothing to you?”
Vargas made a point to watch Garcia, whose poker game didn’t even come close to the level of Rojas’s. But this time the younger detective betrayed nothing.
“I’m afraid not,” Rojas said. “And while I’d never presume to tell you your job, I can assure you that pursuing this particular angle will only result in disappointment.”
Was that a threat? Vargas couldn’t be sure.
For a moment he wondered if Rojas was Juarez’s answer to Harmon, but the guy didn’t strike Vargas as someone who would be willing to take orders from anyone, let alone Mr. Blister and his friends. But money was a different story. There was no doubt that in one way or another, the man was dirty. Vargas could see it in his eyes.
Rojas dropped his napkin to the table and leaned back. “You mentioned an exchange. And now that I’ve lived up to my end of the deal, it’s time for you to tell me what you know.”
“I asked for the truth,” Vargas said.
“And that’s what I’ve given you. I even included a wonderful breakfast.” He smiled. “Now it’s your turn.”
There was something in that smile that said refusal was not an option, and Vargas knew he was on dangerous ground here. Mess with a cop in Juarez-especially one as powerful as Rojas-and you might find yourself in a very confined space, sharing your body heat with a new roommate.
But if Rojas and Garcia could lie, so could Vargas. And his poker game was pretty damn good.
“You caught me,” he said. “I’ve got nothing. I was bluffing.”
Rojas’s smile abruptly disappeared, his voice flat and unamused. “Then I believe we’re done.”
Vargas didn’t move. Nodded to the photo. “Not until you tell me who she is.”
Rojas took it from the table and, without looking at it, ripped it in two pieces and tossed them at Vargas.
“A product of your imagination,” he said. “And we both know what kind of trouble that will bring you.”
48
“ You shouldn’t have provoked him,” Garcia said. “He’s as bad as Carmelita. He’ll blame me for ruining his breakfast.”
They were in Vargas’s car, driving back to the station.
“All he had to do was tell me the truth.”
Garcia laughed. “You don’t know Rojas.”
“Then educate me.”
Garcia looked at him a moment, weighing the request. Then he said, “The man is a pig. That story he told you about taking over the family business? He didn’t mention that he stabbed his brother twice to convince him to step aside.”
“So why wasn’t he arrested?”
“His brother denied it. Blamed the attack on a gang of teenagers. Three of them are still in jail.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Garcia shrugged. “Probably because I despise the man. Believe it or not, not all Mexican cops are corrupt. We’re hardworking people, trying to do good and make a living at the same time. The drug cartels are out of control down here, treating people as if they’re disposable. And trying to stop them is hard enough without pendejos like Rojas tainting the department.” He paused. “But Rojas also has a lot of friends, so if you ever repeat what I’ve just
